The Way Home

The Way Home

 

by barbar

 

 

Edward loves his daughter. Collecting her from school each afternoon, and walking home with her, is a highlight of his day. Then one day, on the way from his work to his daughter’s school, he meets a blind man in the park.

 

 

Tags: Tear jerker, slow, no sex.

 

 

© 2013

 

 

Note: This story is one of several that are set in Emmerdale, which is a fictional country town in northern New South Wales, Australia. It’s inland of the Great Dividing Range and near the Queensland border.

 

The stories, for the most part, are not connected. Despite that, some characters appear in more than one story.  The different Emmerdale stories vary in style and tone.

 

Knowledge of the other Emmerdale stories is not necessary to read and understand The Way Home. It is intended as a purely stand-alone story.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1:

 

Slap file closed. Throw into out-tray. (very satisfying thunk) Look at watch. Time to go. Time for my little girl.

 

Pick up briefcase. Two files from in-tray. Drop into briefcase. (click-click) Catches close. (love that sound)

 

Check reflection in window. Straighten tie. Pull door closed. Listen for snick. (another good sound)

 

Wave to secretary. “Good night Molly.”

 

“Good night, Mr Richardson. See you tomorrow.”

 

Her voice is soft. I love the sound of her voice. It sounds so sweet.

 

Keep walking. No time to chat. My girl will be waiting.

 

(Traffic noise) Crowded pavement. Bland faceless people bustle. (snips of half-heard conversations) Stride through crowd. Be assertive, not pushy.

 

Two blocks of busy pavements.

 

Turn right into park. (birds singing) No more crowd. Longer strides. No time to dawdle. My little girl will be waiting.

 

Park bench is empty. (except for the memories) Pat park bench. (memories make me smile)

 

No time to dawdle. Keep walking.

 

Path opens into paved circle. Fountain sprays and hisses and gurgles.

 

Stop.

 

I stop and look at the fountain.

 

Chapter 2:

 

Slap file closed. Into out-tray. (thunk) Look at watch. Time to go. Time for my little girl.

 

Pick up briefcase. Two files from in-tray. Drop into briefcase. Close brief-case. (click-click)

 

Check reflection in window. Straighten tie. Pull door closed. (snick)

 

Wave to receptionist. “Good night Molly.”

 

“Good night, Mr Richardson. See you tomorrow.”  (such a melodic voice)

 

Keep walking. No time to chat. My girl will be waiting.

 

(Traffic noise) Two blocks of bland faceless crowds. (half-heard conversations)

 

Turn right into park. (birds singing) No more crowd. Longer strides. No time to dawdle. My girl will be waiting.

 

Park bench is filled with memories – and a man.

 

He shifts his head. Tilts it to one side. Listens to my approaching footsteps.

 

“Hello?” His voice is tentative, unsure, lost.

 

He seems to be middle aged, tallish, a slight olive tint to his skin. He wears a neat grey suit, looks professional.

 

Pat park bench. (memories make me smile)

 

He turns his head to face me. Eyes hide behind dark glasses.

 

“Will you help me?" he says to me. "I don’t know where we are.”

 

No time to chat. My little girl will be waiting.

 

“You’re in Memorial Park. I have to go. I’m sorry.”

 

“Will you tell me one thing? Are there trees? What colour are the trees?”

 

The odd question stops me in my tracks.

 

“What?”

 

“I’m an artist. I like to draw.”